


Pretty much human

by what_a_dork_fish



Series: Ineffable Fluffies [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crowley is very emotional okay, Fluff, poor baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 04:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19660078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: Crowley has been acting odd, and Aziraphale is worried.





	Pretty much human

**Author's Note:**

> jfc when will I Stop
> 
> Also please appreciate that I have been writing all of these Good Omens ficlets in four straight hours each because I don't remember ever being this industrious.

Crowley was acting odd.

Aziraphale was concerned. They had seen Adam and Pepper off to university just a few weeks ago, and ever since then, Crowley had been… not restless, but perhaps unsettled. He hadn’t taken his glasses off once since Adam left, not even in Aziraphale’s company. He muttered and twitched more, and went for late-night drives without telling Aziraphale where he was going or when he’d be back. He hadn’t even been interested in the latest opera at their favorite theatre.

Aziraphale dusted his books and fretted. Crowley was trying very hard to pretend everything was the same, but it wasn’t. Something had changed, when Adam had pulled Crowley aside and whispered in his ear, before the boy and Pepper had hopped on the train. Crowley was thinking hard about something, but he didn’t want Aziraphale to know that.

Some customers came in and Aziraphale didn’t have the heart to be discouraging. He sold them their books, bid them good day, and rearranged a precarious stack on an end table. He should really get around to putting all the books in alphabetical order, or even that Dewey Decimal system he’d heard of; but he didn’t feel like it.

He wondered what Crowley was up to.

~

Crowley had given up most of his evil ways after Hell and Heaven promised to leave him and Aziraphale alone. There didn’t seem much point. He liked lazing around Aziraphale’s shop, or combing the various gardening shops for new plants, or watching Golden Girls online. He liked this easy life of never reporting or worrying about his superiors or visiting the dank, dismal halls of Hell.

He didn’t like how… _empty_ his days were.

Aziraphale seemed content enough to be a shopkeeper and obtain more and more books. He smiled more, which was lovely to see, and Crowley found himself fighting the urge to curl up in Aziraphale’s lap and hold him until the sun swallowed the Earth.

But Adam had been right. And Crowley’s life was so empty that he kept coming back to Adam’s words, will he, nil he.

“ _You should just get it over with and marry him,”_ Adam had hissed. _“Then my parents won’t frown at you two so much.”_

“ _As if I care what two humans think,”_ Crowley had growled.

Adam had given him a disgusted look. _“You’re pretty much human yourself now. If you don’t ask him by Christmas, I’m gonna tell him you love him, and not in a friend way.”_

It wasn’t the threat that had struck Crowley. It was the accusation. _You’re pretty much human yourself._

And that was why Crowley couldn’t settle, couldn’t sit beside Aziraphale quietly for more than an hour, couldn’t stand to be without his glasses that hid the bit of him that would always be demonic. Because it was true. He was so far removed from Hell now; no one had contacted him in years. No matter how many miracles he performed, there were no longer any serious meetings about his performance or threats to limit his power, which never really came to fruition. He no longer felt uncomfortable just walking past a church. He would always be a demon. He could not unmake that part of himself.

But he was pretty much human now. He’d gone native.

And Aziraphale had, too.

Oh, the angel probably hadn’t noticed much; he’d always been dense when it came to a sense of who he _was_ , instead of what Heaven wanted from him. Crowley knew. Crowley had been his friend for centuries. He’d seen the flashes of the real Aziraphale, the being who loved hedonistic pleasure above all else, who would rather miracle a feast for five hundred than go a day without food, hidden by the fear and reluctant obedience. Those flashes had gotten more frequent over the years, and now that the last bit of fear had dropped away, the real Aziraphale was free.

And Crowley couldn’t take it, because it meant the precarious solidity he’d clung to since he Fell was now dust. It had been him and Aziraphale against the world, against Heaven and Hell, on _their_ side, on _humanity’s_ side. But now there was no “them”. They were no longer the outcasts, the ones barred from all sides. Now they were pretty much human, and they were part of the flow of humanity, dragged down into its depths, drops in an ocean of beings. They weren’t apart, they didn’t need to cling to each other to be safe. They could let go of each other.

That terrified Crowley. Letting go of Heaven had been agony. Letting go of Aziraphale would be beyond mere pain. They would be swept up, swept apart, and Aziraphale would forget about him, as God had forgotten him, as Satan had forgotten, as—

Crowley stopped the Bentley. He’d driven all the way up to the very tippy-top of Scotland, to a spot where no humans lived. Crowley got out of the Bentley, and walked to the edge of the cliff, staring out at the sea. He had never cried. Demons don’t cry. Snakes don’t cry. But he wished he could. Because he was scared, and he didn’t want to be alone, but there was no doubt in his mind that eventually, eventually, he would be.

~

Aziraphale was even more worried than usual. Crowley hadn’t called him in two days, and Anathema couldn’t tell Aziraphale where he was. All anyone knew was that a Bentley with Crowley’s plate had been seen speeding north.

Well, then. Aziraphale was just going to have to employ some special magics of his own.

Miracles were one thing, tricks with cards were another; but _magic_ , the kind that Anathema and her ancestors did, was far more delicate and precise. Aziraphale had spent a good three hundred years learning as much magic as he could, and he was sure—he was fairly sure—he could manage a simple finding-spell.

He closed the blinds, blocked the mail slot, and retreated to a dark back room, which he lit with many large candles and a single oil lamp, its fuel faintly perfumed. In the dim flickering light, he sat on the floor and arranged three objects in front of him.

A black opal, large and smooth and gleaming in its many colors. A silver mirror, plain, but with a glyph traced in moon-water on its surface. A bone-handled knife, the blade sharp enough to cut even an angel’s skin.

In Aziraphale’s hands, he held a lock of red hair; Crowley’s, snipped many centuries ago without him ever knowing. Aziraphale kissed the lock absently, then lifted the knife. Concentrating, murmuring the spell’s opening lines, Aziraphale held his hands over the mirror, and pricked his forefinger. A drop of blood oozed out, and fell, tainting the moon-water with a swirling darkness of no particular color. What color is divinity?

His own blood would only give the spell the parameter that he looked for another angel; because no matter if Crowley had fallen or not, he had still been an angel at his creation. Aziraphale separated one hair from the others and let it fall on the mirror. It melted into the blood and water mixture, and the liquids flattened out into a red-tinted puddle, clouding the reflection. Now the spell had Crowley’s specific “scent”.

But it wasn’t strong enough. Still murmuring, Aziraphale set down the knife and picked up the opal, holding it in his cupped hands. The power he had been storing in the stone flowed out, thick and rippling and sure of its purpose, to sink into the puddle and turn it clear as glass. Aziraphale sighed, set the stone down, and picked up the mirror.

A vision swirled into being in the mirror’s surface. A Scottish shoreline, cold and cheerless, and Crowley standing at the edge of the cliff, his face twisted with bitterness and grief. His eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses, were unreadable. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

Aziraphale whispered another spell, and got the exact coordinates for Crowley’s position. He’d have to be fast; who knew how soon Crowley would start moving again? Gently, Aziraphale blew on the mirror, and the sheet of magical liquid collapsed, sloshing all over his hands and lap. He snapped his fingers and the liquid ran off him, to gather in a puddle under where he sat. He stood, quickly cleared away his tools, doused the lights, and snapped his fingers again.

In a blink, he was in Scotland.

~

Crowley whipped around when he felt Aziraphale’s presence at his back, and gaped. “How did you…?” he spluttered.

Aziraphale gave him a disapproving look. “You think Anathema is the only one with witchcraft?” he snapped, looking very out of place, all prim and proper on bare rock. “Crowley, _what_ has gotten into you? Can’t you trust me?”

Of course the angel would have to make it difficult. With no way to slither out of the question, Crowley shuffled his feet and swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. Instead he retorted, “What do you know of witchcraft?”

“Enough to find you, and it’s a good thing I did.” Aziraphale took two steps forward and Crowley resisted the urge to run to him. “Crowley, please.”

And of course he put on his best puppy-eyes, the pleading expression that always made Crowley crumple to his will, and of course Crowley gave in, because he could never, ever, _ever_ be cruel to that sad face.

“We’re nearly human,” he blurted.

Aziraphale frowned a little. “What?”

“We’re… we’re nearly human, you and me.”

“So?”

Crowley tried to put it into words. Tried to put the fear, the certainty, the mourning, into sentences that Aziraphale would understand. He really did try. But they were such big feelings, and so complex, that his throat froze up around them. He forced out one small sentence: “I don’t want to lose you.”

Aziraphale blinked. And then, suddenly, he scowled. “Is that all?! You are a prime silly ass, Crowley! I’m not going anywhere.” Aziraphale stomped forward and grabbed Crowley’s hands. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“That—no, that’s not—” But he still couldn’t find the right words, and with Aziraphale scowling up at him, his hands tight on Crowley’s, his body so close Crowley could feel the warmth of it, it didn’t really seem as important. So finally he croaked, “You mean it?”

“Yes, I mean it. Now get in the car and let’s go home. I’ll take you to dinner, and you can explain yourself when we’re back at the shop. Or your flat. Wherever you feel safest.”

“Anywhere’s safe with you.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blushed, and uncertainty passed over his face before he lifted his chin stubbornly again. “Fine, then we’ll go to the shop, and I’ll put on some of that disco music you like, and you can tell me why you’re scared.”

Crowley nodded. Then he hesitated, before drawing his hands free and hugging his angel so hard Aziraphale squeaked. It was an adorable little sound, and Crowley found himself smiling.

“Alright,” he said, without letting go. “Where did you want to eat?”

**Author's Note:**

> comments = life, love, and happiness.


End file.
